“Smith’s rules. Only fighters and his guys allowed in the changing rooms.”
Michael didn’t care. Smith’s goon was long gone. “Is anyone likely to come back here to check?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “A month ago I’d have said no, but now your guess is as good as mine.”
“I’ll make it quick then.” He took a step closer, and Aaron turned, leant against the sink, and faced him. “Need a hand with that?” He nodded down at the tape half covering Aaron’s hands. Fully expecting Aaron to refuse, he was surprised when Aaron simply stopped unwrapping them and held his hands out to Michael.
For whatever reason, that one gesture seemed more intimate than anything they’d shared so far. Half the bathroom lights weren’t working, and the dim light gave the room a cosier atmosphere than it should have. Swallowing a sudden nervousness, and hoping his hands wouldn’t shake, Michael reached out and began to unwrap the tape from Aaron’s outstretched hands. He wanted to ask about Aaron’s tattoo, but something told him now wasn’t the time.
Silence settled between them. Instead of being awkward or uncomfortable, Michael felt nothing but a charge of excitement, anticipation heavy in the air. It felt like something was about to happen, he just wasn’t sure what.
Without looking up, Michael knew Aaron was watching him, felt the weight of his gaze as he worked.
The once-white tape was now dirty with sweat and blood, but Michael didn’t care. Carefully, he removed each layer until Aaron’s hands were free. His job finished, he stepped back—because he thought he should, not because he wanted to—and went to throw the tape in the bin.
Aaron’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “Can’t throw it away, remember?” His voice was soft, gently reminding him.
“Shit. Sorry.” How had he forgotten about the one piece of forensic evidence they’d actually found? Handing the bundle to Aaron, he moved to wash his hands while Aaron opened a locker and shoved the tape into his bag.
“It’s fine. I’ve almost forgotten a couple of times.” Aaron pulled a clean towel out of the bag and hung it on a hook on the wall, then filled the other sink with water.
Michael gave his hands a shake, then wiped them on his jeans, all the while watching Aaron out of the corner of his eye. “Did Smith tell you to make the fight last longer tonight?”
“Yeah.” Aaron bent over the sink and began to wash the blood off his face. “Blake met me at the door earlier. Told me it’d be a good idea if the fight went to six rounds this time.” He splashed water over the back of his neck and through his hair, drops of it running over his shoulders, then down his very muscular back.
Mouth dry, Michael averted his eyes before he was tempted to reach out and catch a droplet on his finger. “So,” he said, voice rough. Clearing his throat, he tried again, looking up in time to catch Aaron’s smirk in the mirror. “Do you reckon they’d have done anything if you’d knocked him out in round two?”
Aaron straightened and reached for his towel. “Maybe?” He patted himself dry, the odd drop of water escaping down his front this time, and Michael followed its path until it disappeared past the waistband of his jeans.
Put a fucking T-shirt on already.
“But I didn’t think it was worth testing him.” Aaron’s smirk was still firmly in place, his cocky expression leading Michael to believe he’d been caught staring again.
Come on, Michael. Eyes up.
“No. We want him to think you’re trustworthy, a pushover even, not a pain in the arse or someone they need to worry about.”
When Aaron reached into his locker again and fished a T-shirt out of his bag, Michael didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. A little of both, if he was honest. “I’d better leav—”
Aaron’s hand shot out, covering Michael’s mouth, his gaze darting towards the door. He put a finger to his own lips and Michael nodded in understanding.
The room was deathly quiet, but even though Michael strained to hear what Aaron obviously did, no sound reached him. A couple of seconds passed, and then he heard it—voices outside the door moments before it swung open.
In a blur of movement, Michael found himself pushed up against the wall of lockers with Aaron’s hands on either side of his face.
“Just go with it,” Aaron whispered, then crushed his mouth to Michael’s.
The bathroom door hit the wall, kick-starting Michael’s police instincts. He grabbed Aaron’s hips, pulling him closer, and kissed him back as though his life depended on it. That might be a slight exaggeration, but he wasn’t supposed to be back here. He had no idea how Smith dealt with rule-breakers, but he was certain a slap on the wrist and a stern talking to wasn’t it. Pushing a thigh between Aaron’s legs, he rubbed up against his groin—and fucking hell, Aaron was hard already—moaning into the kiss to make it seem like they were oblivious to their sudden audience.
Aaron’s fingers slid into his hair, grip tight, and Michael didn’t need stellar acting skills to make this believable. His cock throbbed in his too-tight jeans, his heart raced, and the next moan that slipped out was totally unplanned—he couldn’t help himself.
He’d almost forgotten they were pretending, so lost in the wet heat of Aaron’s mouth, and he jumped a mile when a voice barked, “What the fuck’s going on here?”
Instead of springing apart like Michael expected, Aaron took his time, finishing the kiss off with a soft peck and stroke to Michael’s cheekbone. Michael shivered, reacting to the heat in Aaron’s gaze even though he told himself,This is just for show.
“What does it look like?” Aaron’s expression changed to something much colder as he pulled back and turned to face the two men now staring at them with barely concealed hostility. Aaron’s blue-grey eyes had lost all the warmth from seconds before, and his whole body seemed to tense in readiness.
I should’ve listened to Harry.
